


Dreams and Disasters

by HallowedNight



Series: Dreams and Disasters (Winterhawk Fugitive AU) [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (??? I guess???), (Clint is paranoid as hell honestly), (though Bucky is a bit of a disaster as well), Canon-Typical Violence, Codependency, Deaf Clint Barton, Established Relationship, Fugitive AU, Human Disaster Clint Barton, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Paranoia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sarcasm because Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-07 22:12:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6826942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HallowedNight/pseuds/HallowedNight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Living in a skyscraper full of superheroes, Clint finds, is a lot more appealing on paper than in practice. No one trusts you and everything is always bugged, your "friends" can kill you with their pinkies, and therapists don't generally grant firing range privileges to ex-assassins-turned-spies-turned-mentally-fucked-wash-ups. Clint needs to leave, as soon as fucking possible. Thankfully, he's not the only one feeling the need for...well, literally anything other than what he has right now.</p><p>(Or, the one where Bucky and Clint run away from the Avengers with absolutely no plan, even less mental health, and, tragically, no Oreos.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams and Disasters

**Author's Note:**

> Hello strangers! I haven't posted anything on Ao3 in ages. 
> 
> Anyway, here's this, because CA:CW got me thinking. (Even though this isn't CA:CW or Avengers 2 compliant.) Title is from the song of the same name by Owl City. It...kind of fits? Not really. 
> 
> Enjoy~

_“I’m leaving tonight.”_

Clint gazes out over the New York skyline from his vantage point on the roof of Avengers Tower. Chilled wind whips past him, buffeting him and snatching at his coat.

_“I’m leaving tonight. You should come with me.”_

_“You know someone’ll try to stop us.”_

_“They’ll try.”_

He hadn’t set out to start all this when Steve had dragged the Winter Soldier back to the Tower all those months ago – nine, now? – and he didn’t know how to feel about it. Not that he’d _actually_ feel anything if he did know what to feel anyway. His thoughts were either racing a mile-a-minute, tripping over his teeth on their way out his mouth, or conspicuously absent. Silence was the norm for Clint whenever he could manage it. He rarely wore his hearing aids anymore, and Buck was the only one that was privileged enough to hear his paranoia-fueled rants these days.

It had sunk in after the fact, what Buck had really been saying. He was leaving Avengers Tower, fleeing out into the world to do fuck knows what, and he wanted to haul Clint along with him. Well, that’s what boyfriends – partners? fuck it, who knows – do, right? Break out of prisons they’re not actually in, escape surveillance that’s probably not even there, follow each other into firing squads and explosions or whatever shit Buck does on his days off.

_“They’ll try. I won’t let them stop us. Or hurt you.”_

Clint snorts and wipes his nose on his sleeve

_“Love is for children. I owe him a debt.”_

He pointedly doesn’t think about Natasha as he leaps down to the door back into the Tower. He’s done all his thinking; besides, he had made up his mind the second the words had left Buck’s mouth. No way is he staying in this godawful Tower anymore, surrounded by people who could kill him at a moment’s notice. He’ll take his chances in the Outside World, thanks.

No one stops him on his way back to his apartment, and Clint is almost relieved. He’d probably puke if he had to pretend for another second to believe in, to _like_ these people who don’t trust him enough to let him piss in privacy.

The world is comfortably quiet as Clint dresses for his little outing. A tight black undershirt and pants obscure his outline in the dark room, though the effect is soon undermined by the deep purple streaks on his thick vest. The thing has been repaired since the New York clusterfuck, but the once reassuring cling of the heavy fabric now feels suffocating. He sighs, steps into his boots, stares at the near empty closet. He’ll get over it.

 _“What, are you gonna go in armed? Mow down Captain America when he tries to stop his best friend from leaving_ again _?”_

Buck had just shrugged.

_“Whatever it takes.”_

Clint believes him wholeheartedly.

His bracer and tabs slot easily into their places on his arm and fingers like they had always been part of him. He slings his full quiver over his back and grabs his bow, smiling grimly at the familiar weight. Well, he’s definitely not out of practice, so that’s not a problem. Plenty of opportunities to shoot at pictures of your arch-nemesis at three in the morning when you can shimmy your way through the thankfully-not-bugged vent system.

_“Oh, you know just what to say, baby.”_

This thing with Buck still throws Clint for a loop. Sure, they could have bonded over shared experiences – mind-control, killing innocent people against your will, all that fun stuff – but really they just enjoy talking. Buck had needed to get away from Steve in the beginning, and Clint needed to get away from everyone. Both being trained assassins and spies, their choice hiding places inevitably overlapped at some point. He’s still not sure when the trust started, or what was really going on with the easy banter or stolen kisses, but James Barnes makes him feel wanted, and the Winter Soldier makes him feel safe. He doesn’t rule out that Buck was just the first person to treat him like a human being since New York, but then again, he doesn’t really care about the reasons. He doesn’t care about his own reasons or Buck’s, and if Buck or James Barnes or the Winter Soldier can get him out of this Tower and off the grid in one piece, then he’ll love the guy for the rest of his life, no questions asked.

Buck is nowhere to be seen when Clint flops onto the sofa in the communal-area-of-eating-and-slouching-around, but he’s not worried. They hadn’t set any particular time beyond “tonight,” so Clint resigns himself to an evening of boredom and wriggles into a more comfortable position, his head resting against the back of the overly-plush couch.

Sleep doesn’t come, but Clint’s mind wanders just enough to make him think someone’s watching him, and that, in turn, is just enough to make him scramble from his resting spot and string his bow in a single, smooth motion. Bloodshot eyes dance around the murky room, checking off every corner and shadowed alcove. The room is empty.

Clint lowers his bow fractionally, his heartbeat thrumming loudly in his ears. There’s no one there. No one coming to lock him up, to force him into any more freezing metal chairs, to strap fuck knows what to his head; he’s okay, for now. The thought bounces around in his head for a moment, but he doesn’t absorb it. He’s never okay, never safe, not here, not now.

The bow snaps back into ready position when a figure materializes from the darkened doorway. Clint smiles, lowers his weapon, tucks away his arrow. Buck steps into the dim ring of light filtering in from the floor-to-ceiling windows and Clint sighs, fully convinced he’s never seen a more beautiful sight in his life. Buck is decked out in full Winter Soldier armor, sans mask but including the smudged charcoal that highlights his bright eyes. His metal arm glints in the diffuse light, powerful and menacing as it grips a ridiculous gun of some kind.

(Fuck if Clint knows anything about guns beyond pistols. Guns are noisy and messy and break far too easily, and he has no real desire to mess with them.)

Buck says something, distracts Clint with the curve of his lips, the elegant arch of an eyebrow.

Clint taps ear. ‘I can’t hear you,’ he signs, grinning crookedly when Bucky sighs visibly and shifts the gun around to his back, where it’s supported by a strap across his chest.

‘Today isn’t a talking day?’ Buck signs back, metal fingers reflecting the glittering, multi-colored lights of the city below.

Clint shakes his head. ‘Can’t take the hearing aids. Stark probably has some kind of tracking device in them.’

‘Valid point.’ Buck lets his hands fall to his sides, watching Clint watch him. His lips slowly quirk into that infuriating smile that always sends Clint’s already scattered thoughts blasting straight out of his head and into the stratosphere. ‘Like what you see?’ Buck signs, then spreads his arms, showing off his broad chest and slim waist and _damn_ that’s just not _fair_ —

Clint closes the distance between them in a few intentioned strides, and Buck’s hands are already in position to cradle Clint’s face when they kiss, slow and languid and nothing like they’re about to fight their way out of a skyscraper packed with the most dangerous people on the planet. It’s fucked up, whatever they have, but Clint isn’t about to complain. Buck’s mouth is warm and insistent, grounding him in the moment and reminding him why he’s going through with this ridiculous plan in the first place. Yes, it’s fucked up, but they are too. Probably irreparably.

They break apart simultaneously as a distinct vibration shudders beneath their feet. Clint’s eyes jump to Buck’s face in the same instant his hand twitches up to finger at an arrow. Buck just holds up a hand, listening closely. Normally, Clint would be going out his mind right about now, unable to hear anything beyond shouting in his ear and explosions, but he trusts Buck. When Clint doesn’t want to hear or speak, when he needs to be wrapped in a cocoon of silence to bury himself in his own thoughts, Buck acts as his ears, and does a damn good job.

An eternity later, or so it seems, Buck lowers his hand and shrugs. ‘Probably Stark fucking up in the lab. They can’t know about this anyway.’

‘Says you,’ Clint signs with a wry smile. ‘How do I know you haven’t tipped off Captain Drama just to make your grand exit front page news?’

‘Shut up.’

‘I didn’t say a word.’

The glare Buck shoots his way would have sent Clint running if he didn’t want to kiss the man so fucking much.

Still smiling in spite of himself and the situation, Clint steps over to the window, glancing down at the bustling city for a few seconds before turning back to Buck. ‘So how is this going to happen?’

Buck shrugs again, fingering the barrel of the gun behind his back thoughtfully. ‘I’m not sure. It depends what the rest of the crew decides to do. It’s possible we can just walk out the front.’ His sardonic expression suggests he doesn’t think this is very likely, and Clint is inclined to agree. ‘More likely we’ll have to fight our way through. Or run through. We can’t take all of them.’

Clint shrugs and mimes shooting his bow a few times. Buck cocks an eyebrow.

‘You would kill them?’

‘I can incapacitate without killing. Though…’ He lets his hands drop and shrugs once again. He’ll kill if he has to; he’s desperate, and he knows Buck shares the sentiment. ‘No way we’ll make it far looking like this.’ He gestures at Buck’s conspicuous clothes. The change of subject isn’t at all smooth, but Buck doesn’t comment.

‘We’ll change at some point. We’ll need this if we have to fight though. It’s worth it.’

They both gaze sightlessly out the window for a long moment. Clint’s thoughts start to crank up again, crackling down his brain stem and through his nerves like electricity, sending his fingers twitching. He jerks his head, a little involuntary tic, and catches Buck’s attention.

‘This is wild. I feel like an…evil person.’ He searches for the sign, his hands balled into fists until they fly back into action. ‘A supervillain.’

Buck grins, a shark-toothed leer that sends a thrill down Clint’s spine. ‘Welcome to the dark side, baby.’

‘Well fuck, if you look like that through this whole thing then sign me up.’

‘You’re so easy, Barton.’

Clint winks jauntily then draws a deep breath. ‘Alright, so this is nice, but…are we going to actually do this sometime tonight? I’m getting jittery.’

A leisurely shrug rolls through Buck’s shoulders, morphing easily into a stretch. Everything about the man seems so effortless to Clint, from the way he walks and talks to the way he carries a gun. He’s never hurried and never worried, and Clint is fully prepared to ride those scary calm coattails straight the fuck out of Dodge. He’s ready. Time to blow this hellhole.

He would keep making jokes to himself, but Buck nods sharply and heads towards the elevator. Clint follows closely, pulled along by the man’s magnetic sense of purpose. Sure, he doesn’t _really_ know what the fuck is about to happen, they don’t have a backup plan…they don’t even have a primary plan. But that doesn’t matter, not now. Everything is about to change one way or another, and staying in this godforsaken Tower isn’t an option.

_“I’m leaving tonight.”_

Clint is immediately uncomfortable when the elevator doors shut behind him. Though he has no trouble with enclosed spaces, he’s absolutely sure that Stark has this elevator bugged from floor to ceiling, and he hates it. He can feel the mechanized eyes like insects on his skin, crawling and burrowing, worming their way into his useless ears and—

A heavy hand falls on Clint’s shoulder, warm and familiar. He doesn’t immediately snap back to himself, but Buck’s steady presence at his side helps him gather his thoughts as the numbers above the elevator doors slowly count down. It feels disconcertingly like a timer.

_“I won’t let them stop us. Or hurt you.”_

As the last few numbers slip away, Buck squeezes Clint’s shoulder and casually flicks his gun back into his hands. Clint exhales slowly and nocks an arrow, his tingling nerves going still for the first time that night. He knows this. He’s survived worse than anything the Avengers can throw at him. He’ll be fine, especially with Buck beside him.

The lobby is dark and unusually still as Clint and Buck creep out of the elevator. Even without his hearing, Clint knows they’re treading silently; he knows exactly how to move, how to plant his feet and shift his weight, and Buck is no different.

The air abruptly shifts, a nearly imperceptible change in the atmosphere that sends Buck into a crouch that Clint immediately mimics. _Someone’s here_ , Buck mouths, then jerks his head to Clint’s right and stands slowly. Clint nods and creeps off in the direction Buck had indicated, while Buck himself peels off in the opposite direction. The tension mounts as the seconds wear on, and Clint can’t shake the feeling of eyes pressing down on him from all angles. Someone is definitely watching them, waiting—

And then he sees him, silhouetted against the traffic and neon lights shining through the glass front doors. Steve Rogers, dressed in nothing but a pair of sweatpants and a cotton t-shirt, armed with his shield and a thundercloud expression, is standing between the Winter Soldier and the only escape route, and said soldier does _not_ look happy.

Clint lowers himself to the ground; he can tell that Steve and Buck are talking, but he can’t read their lips in the gloom. Buck stalks towards Steve, his shining eyes almost unnaturally bright against his charcoal-black skin. Clint crawls closer on his stomach, trying to keep out of Steve’s line of sight. He has no idea if the Captain knows that he’s part of this, and he’d prefer to keep it that way for the foreseeable future. Arrows are all the more deadly when the person on the receiving end has no idea where they’re coming from.

Steve and Buck are speaking again. Clint squints at their lips, thinks he can maybe imagine what they _could_ be saying.

_“You don’t want to do this, Bucky.”_

_“Don’t I?”_

_“I don’t want to fight you.”_

Buck’s eyes harden.

_“Then get out of the way.”_

Steve doesn’t move. Gun and shield raise as if in slow motion, totally opposed in function and bearer and yet both powerful symbols. Clint smiles, vaguely glad he hadn’t lost any of his poetic tendencies in his downtime.

The tension boils over, and a single shot rings out in the silence, audible even to Clint; it ricochets off the Captain’s shield and into the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows Stark seems so fucking fond of. The pane shatters, shards of glass like glittering diamonds crashing to the polished floor as all hell breaks loose. Alarms start blaring from all directions, sounding far away but loud enough to draw Clint’s attention. Buck and Steve are fighting now, the rifle forgotten or thrown aside as the two super-soldiers grapple, so evenly matched and fighting for such diametric reasons. The difference, Clint muses as he watches, enthralled, is that Buck has a more compelling case. In Clint’s informed opinion, at least.

Reality suddenly slams back to the forefront of Clint’s mind as a particularly strong blow from Steve’s shield sends Buck reeling back for a split-second. This can’t continue, not if they’re going to have any chance at actually living through this mess. Already mentally berating himself for even _thinking_ about shooting anywhere near Captain fucking America, Clint pushes himself into a crouch and switches his current arrow for another. His arm is perfectly steady as he waits for an opening, ignoring Buck’s honestly distracting elegance for—there! He lets the arrow fly, already running for the exit before the mechanism opens and wraps a length of weighted rope around Steve’s knees. He keels forward, slamming hard into broken glass and cracked tile, reaching uselessly for Buck as the man flies towards the door.

Time, which had seemed so slow in the chaos, speeds up as Clint and Buck sprint away from Avengers Tower and duck into the nearest shady alleyway. It’s nowhere near far enough away for Clint’s liking; his breathing is shallow and fast, and he feels lightheaded. They’re definitely coming for him now, spilling out the Tower like ants, searching and prying and digging, and this was a _terrible_ idea—

Firm hands grip the sides of Clint’s face, forcing him to look straight into a pair of gleaming grey eyes: Buck’s eyes, pupils dilated enough to turn his irises into multi-faceted halos, ethereal and striking. Buck’s lips are moving, probably saying something comforting, but Clint’s ears are ringing and wouldn’t be able to hear anyway. He grips Buck’s wrists, feels his throat constricting further, and then he’s pressed against Buck’s chest, held there by gentle hands at his waist. He can feel Buck’s heartbeat, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, slow and deliberate, and Clint feels himself slowly following suit.

A few minutes later, Clint still doesn’t feel safe, but he doesn’t think he’s dying anymore. The world drifts back to him, his thoughts and feelings returning in manageable chunks as he slumps against Buck in a disgusting alley. He sighs deeply, world-weary, and pulls away.

‘Thank you,’ he signs simply.

Buck shrugs and leans in to kiss him chastely. ‘We need to go. Now.’

Clint waits another few breaths, hesitates just enough for the itch in the back of his mind to remind him why he needs to leave, and nods. ‘I’ll follow you.’

Buck quirks one of those damning smiles. ‘I know.’

~~~

The night passes in a blur of back alleys and aching lungs. When Clint can’t run any farther, Buck hotwires some poor guy’s car and they weave their way out of New York. Clint has no doubt they’re being tailed, a sinking, suffocating sensation that follows him all the way to the seedy motel Buck picks to give them a few hours to rest.

Clint doesn’t remember falling asleep, but waking up is certainly memorable, in a painful kind of way. Something is pressing against his nose and mouth, wet and sticky and stifling, and he throws himself back, fighting for control as strong arms clamp around his midsection. A well-aimed elbow connects with his attacker’s cheek, and he scrabbles away, ending up in an undignified heap near the headboard of a bed he hadn’t been aware he had slept in.

The rumbling rush of flowing water is barely audible over Clint’s own harsh breathing. He listens for a few moments, confused; he’s still deaf, right? He snaps a few inches away from his ear, hears nothing. His thoughts feel fragmented, far away and flitting farther with every second. He clamps his eyes shut, focuses for a moment, feels his own pulse, and finally—

Everything snaps into place, and Clint jerks uncomfortably, grimacing. The water is his own blood struggling to get to his brain as his heart races, he and Buck are in a sketchy motel after running from the fucking Avengers, and he had just elbowed his traumatized super-soldier boyfriend in the face in a fit of dissociation. Yep, a normal day.

Now more exhausted than panicked, Clint blinks rapidly in a pretty much futile attempt to force his eyes to adjust to the midday light. Buck has apparently pulled the curtains back, which Clint thinks is a vaguely bad idea, but whatever.

A wave from the end of the bed catches his attention, and Clint finally turns to look at Buck. His left cheekbone is blossoming red already and will probably be a full-blown and very obvious bruise in a few hours. Clint bites his lip.

‘Sorry,’ he signs, relaxing marginally when Buck’s eyes soften. He doesn’t move from his spot at the end of the bed though, which suddenly feels too far away for Clint’s liking.

‘You okay?’ Buck replies, his hands perfectly steady despite the morning’s – afternoon’s? – excitement.

Clint has to think about that one for a minute. His legs feel suspiciously like jelly, his chest hurts, and, oh yeah, he’s on the run from _the fucking Avengers_ , but other than that…

‘I’m fine. Mostly.’ He waits for Buck’s nod, then flops against the headboard and gestures for the other man to come cuddle him, because Clint’s had a hard night and this is _necessary_. When Buck is settled comfortably against his torso, Clint slings his arms over his chest so Buck can see him sign. He rests his chin on the not-half-metal shoulder, taking the quiet time to prepare himself for the next wave of mental instability that he knows he’s not going to be able to dodge.

‘Why are we still here?’ Clint asks after a minute, his signs much slower than usual considering the awkward position. Buck just shrugs, taking time to think before answering properly.

‘You needed sleep. You passed out on the way here.’

Clint shakes his head, staring incredulously at an imaginary bystander to his right. ‘I did not. I remember getting here.’

‘Do you remember switching cars?’ Buck twists to catch Clint’s gaze, an open-mouthed smile playing at his lips. Clint’s not sure whether to smack or kiss that smile away, because it certainly can’t stay there considering the way it’s making his heart pound. He settles for a hard kiss, and manages his own triumphant grin at Buck’s disgruntled expression when he pulls away.

‘Okay, so I don’t remember switching cars. Whatever, big deal.’ Clint wriggles into a position that’s easier to sign in, Buck on one side with their legs tangled together. He stares blankly at the far wall for a few seconds. ‘This isn’t a honeymoon?’

Buck shakes his head.

‘Damn. What are we actually going to do? You can bet your ass people are looking for us, and I really really really don’t like that.’

The already unsteady bed shakes as Buck pushes himself into a sitting position, momentarily troubled expression falling into an all-to-familiar smirk. Cool metal fingers brush against Clint’s midsection, a clear indicator of exactly what is going on behind those glimmering grey eyes. Clint shakes his head.

‘I don’t think I could get it up if I wanted to,’ he signs, making himself stare pointedly at Buck’s face as he does so. Buck just shrugs like he had expected as much anyway.

‘I won’t take that as a challenge, for once. We should get out of here pretty soon. We’ll need to get some stuff, clothes, food…that sort of thing.’ Buck’s fingers still for a moment as he gazes out the grimy window. ‘I’d like to get you another set of hearing aids, if we can find someone to threaten.’

Clint raises an eyebrow. ‘I feel like that wouldn’t work. Stark makes mine special.’

‘Yeah, but could something else at least help a little bit? I don’t like you not being able to hear if something happens.’

Not bothering to point out that he has just as much awareness of his surroundings as any hearing person, Clint rolls his eyes. ‘I guess if you could get something close to my specs. I feel like we should focus on the essentials first though. Like not getting arrested or killed.’

‘Fair enough.’ Buck tilts his head in acknowledgement and rolls off the bed. ‘Go take a shower and change, I’ll watch the room.’

Clint debates not replying as he hops off the bed himself, wincing as his feet scream in protest of the new weight they have to bear, but he can’t resist. ‘Do I really need a shower, or do you just want an excuse to see me naked?’

A wad of clothes comes flying in his direction. He catches it easily and stuffs it under his arm, grinning.

‘If I can smell you from across the room, Stark’s tech could probably find you halfway across the country. Go shower.’

‘Excuse you!’ Clint makes a show of looking aghast as he strips off his shirt. Buck had apparently removed his vest to sleep, because he certainly doesn’t remember doing it. ‘I smell like a man. A manly one,’ he clarifies when his torso is bare. The pants quickly follow.

‘You smell like a…’ A shadow falls over Buck’s face, his brows furrowing in that little frown that Clint thinks is just absolutely adorable. ‘Well, I don’t know how to translate the Russian into sign,’ he eventually finishes. ‘Doesn’t matter. Go.’

Clint shrugs and retreats into the tiny bathroom, waving his hips invitingly as he goes. A solid thump on the door seconds after he closes it suggests Buck has used his own shirt as a projectile, but Clint doesn’t bother sticking his head back out. Besides, if he looks back now and Buck has taken off anything else…well, they have a job to get done, even if they aren’t really sure what it is. Can’t get distracted now.

The bathroom is surprisingly clean and even offers a few threadbare towels and a bar of soap wrapped in paper. It’s not perfect, but it’ll do, Clint thinks as he clambers onto the toilet to close the dusty ceiling vent. He gives the room another little once over, checking under the sink and behind the toilet (because you never really know what could be lurking and listening in an unfamiliar room), then flicks on the shower and washes hurriedly. The already damp tiles throw him for a second until he realizes that Buck has probably already showered, which means he had probably already checked the room for bugs as well. He relaxes after that, and actually enjoys his last few minutes of hot water.

Buck finally loses patience and bangs on the door as Clint is pulling on his new pants. He grunts for Buck to come in, one of the first sounds he’s made since they left the Tower. The door opens a fraction, then all the way once Buck is apparently satisfied with Clint’s state of dress.

‘What, afraid you’ll jump me if I don’t have pants on?’ Clint signs with a snarky smile as Buck deposits a toothbrush and tube of toothpaste on the sink. Buck just nods, his expression completely deadpan. Clint presses a hand to his own chest, miming at being flattered.

When Buck turns back to him, Clint jerks his head towards the sink. ‘Have you been out already?’

‘When you were sleeping.’ Guilt creeps into Buck’s eyes as Clint’s hands drop to his sides. ‘I didn’t go far, I promise. I wouldn’t leave you, you know that. Right?’

Clint stares for a second, then gently pushes Buck out of the room and shuts the door. Sure, it probably isn’t the best way to handle things, but he knows he can get himself under control in a minute or two, and Buck is never any help when he’s freaked or guilty. His hands now gripping the sides of the sink, Clint stares at his own reflection in the stained mirror. It’s not exactly pretty, but it’s alive and okay, and Buck didn’t mean anything by leaving anyway, he was just looking out for Clint, taking care of him…

He brushes his teeth in record time and grabs everything from the bathroom. Though he doesn’t fucking like Buck leaving without telling him, at least the guy has good taste in stolen clothing. The shirt Buck had snagged for him is soft cotton, comfortable and well-fitted, and Clint is willing to bet it didn’t come from any thrift store. He rolls his eyes.

Buck jumps up from his spot near the window when Clint leaves the bathroom, but doesn’t try to catch Clint’s attention. Clint appreciates the patience as he drops everything he’s carrying in a pile next to the backpack that was probably also stolen, as he doesn’t remember leaving with one.

‘I’m not mad,’ he begins, casting his eyes toward the ceiling. ‘Don’t worry about it. Just…for future reference, don’t be sneaking into the fucking president’s closet or something, alright? We’re on a Target budget here.’ He plucks at the t-shirt clinging to his still-damp chest. Buck breaks into a relieved grin.

‘Fine. Don’t you like the color though?’

Clint sighs long-sufferingly. ‘Everyone knows purple is my favorite, I’m not that impressed. Now pack up, we really need to get going.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

Packing doesn’t take long, considering all they have with them is two sets of dirty clothes, Clint’s quiver and bow, which don’t leave his side anyway, and however many thousands of knives Buck manages to stash everywhere. Before they leave, Buck shoves a little pad of paper and a pen into Clint’s hands.

‘Make a list of what we need. I’ll look for a place to stop and get some lunch, but you focus on this.’

Clint nods and takes the gesture at face value. Buck knows he hates sitting still, especially when they’re most likely being followed, so giving him something to do is probably an attempt to keep him calm. A shopping list isn’t really necessary, and Clint doesn’t know what they need anyway, but he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Fuck Buck’s reasons. He knows what’s best for Clint, probably. _Whatever_.

They start driving with no destination and without looking back. Clint assumes Buck knows where he’s going, mostly because he doesn’t have any other choice, and focuses on making a to-steal list.

_Let’s see…well, Oreos, obviously. Clothes, yeah. Should I put specifics? Probably not necessary… Weapons? Nah, we wouldn’t be able to find those anywhere. No freezer for waffles, no stove to make mac and cheese…_

He stops trying after a few minutes and flips to the next page of the notebook to doodle. Halfway through a convincing drawing of Buck riding a T-rex and shooting a rocket launcher at a scribble of Avengers Tower, the car grinds to a halt. They’ve only been driving for three or four hours, but Clint isn’t about to complain. Shitty diner food is _exactly_ what he needs right now.

Before they leave the car, Buck holds out a hand for the notebook. Clint forks over his handiwork with a shit-eating grin, but Buck just flips back to the admittedly bare shopping list and sighs.

‘Oreos and clothes? That’s all you could think of?’

Clint shrugs and nods at the same time, pleased with himself.

‘I’ll fill it out then.’ Buck sticks the pen behind his ear, which Clint thinks is extremely hot, and slides out of the car.

Ten minutes later finds Clint and Buck ensconced in a corner table of the most fifties diner Clint has ever seen. It’s surreal and a bit blinding in the afternoon sun, but the coffee’s hot and the food’s greasy, so he doesn’t complain. Buck is bent over the notebook, scribbling away in nearly illegible handwriting. Clint is fairly sure he’s moved on from the list by now, because there’s no fucking way they would need that much stuff. Honestly, just a car and enough sugary snacks to get them to the Pacific Ocean would suit Clint just fine. But, as per usual, Buck apparently has other plans.

‘Alright,’ he signs, tucking the pen back behind his ear. ‘We need to find a mall or something. I need a laptop.’

Clint’s eyebrows jump towards his hairline. ‘That’s the shittiest idea ever.’

‘I need a decent map to look for a place that has everything we need, and that means using the internet. Don’t want to go scrounging in fifty different places.’

‘Why can’t you just look out the window?’

Buck leans back in his seat and exhales heavily, staring at Clint like he’s the living embodiment of annoyance come to personally make him murder someone. Well, it’s not that far from the truth, really.

‘I need a little more than Oreos and underwear, alright?’ Catching Clint’s eye, Buck quirks his eyebrows into the perfect puppy dog position that just melts Clint’s heart. ‘Do you trust me?’

‘Yes,’ Clint replies without hesitation.

‘Then just follow me.’

It’s Clint’s turn to sigh, and he does so dramatically before downing the dregs of his third cup of coffee. ‘Yes sir, sergeant sir.’

‘Smartass.’

It’s a few minutes past four when they leave the diner, and Buck is determined to make their little supply run at night, so Clint settles back in the car for another long road trip. He’s not particularly happy that he’s not allowed to drive, but oh well; Buck will probably do a better job anyway, and he knows what he’s looking for. Besides, car rides never fail to put Clint right to sleep.

Sure enough, Clint jolts awake at nine-thirty, his neck and back aching. The transition from sleep to consciousness is decidedly smoother than that afternoon, but Clint feels a hell of a lot crappier, probably because some furry animal had crawled into his throat and died while he was asleep. He coughs dryly into his elbow.

Without taking his eyes off the road, Buck reaches into the backseat, fumbling around for a second before dropping a bottle of water in Clint’s lap. He stares at it like it’s a gift from the gods themselves, then chugs half of it. He doesn’t care in the slightest where Buck got it or who he had to kill.

Once Clint has finished his water and feels a little more alive, he wriggles into a cross-legged position and stares out the windshield. His fingers twitch against his knee; he’s starting to feel a little claustrophobic, and his butt hurts. If they’re going to break into a place and steal some shit tonight, he wants to get it over with so they can find a place to stay that has cable, at least. Maybe even HBO.

By the time midnight rolls around, Clint is pretty sure he’s about to bust out of his skin. Buck must’ve noticed, or, more likely, found a place he thinks will have everything they need, because he pulls into the parking lot of a large mall and parks in the most shadowy corner he can find. Clint doesn’t even know what state they’re in, let alone what city, and he highly doubts Buck cares; at least the man had forgone waltzing into a store in broad daylight just to use a computer.

The place looks big and fancy enough to have night watchmen, and there are a few other cars in the parking lot, so Clint slings his quiver over his back and grabs his bow from the backseat. Buck is busy sticking knives into various holsters all over his body, so Clint whistles to get his attention.

‘I’ve seriously got to take a piss, don’t start without me.’

Buck’s grins crookedly, his eyes glittering in the sparse glow cast from the nearest streetlight. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

Clint blows him a sardonic kiss and creeps into the scraggly strip of field that borders the massive building. Confident that Buck will find him when he’s ready, Clint relieves himself in the shadow of the building and keeps walking, hugging the wall in case of security cameras. He feels a little ridiculous, scoping out a fucking shopping mall when he’s used to heavily-defended terrorist bunkers, but what the hell. He needs shit in this mall, and he is _not_ about to get arrested over some Oreos. Even the golden kind.

A few hundred yards and Clint turns the far corner, a grin hitching onto his face as he does so. He whistles again, high and shrill, and gets to work inspecting the fenced-in appliance unit, or whatever it should be called. Several huge AC and heat fixtures are wired into a few generators that probably continue underground, and three large ventilation shafts above the intake vents look like a perfect way into the building. Two more identical structures dot the back wall of the building, which melts into the darkness after a hundred yards or so.

Clint has already picked the outer lock and is working on removing one of the vent covers when Buck finds him. He’s wearing _that look_ , so Clint doesn’t bother trying to sign to him; it’s time for action, for getting shit done, and it probably isn’t useful to point out that this is _a fucking shopping mall_ and doesn’t need Buck’s slightly terrifying (if really hot) undivided attention.

The vent pops off easily after a few minutes, and Clint hands it down to Buck before slinging his bow over his back and hoisting himself into the shaft. It’s sturdy but dark, so he pulls out a penlight and clicks it on, shimmying forward a few feet so Buck can slide in behind him. There are, thankfully, no telltale red lights or any other fittings inside the vent that he can see. So, not bugged, not secured, and definitely not the smallest thing he’s ever had to slither through on his belly. Overall, not a bad find.

They crawl along for a few hundred feet, turning here and there, Clint looking down through every vent they come across. He eventually finds one to his liking and signals over his shoulder to Buck, who edges back. It takes Clint all of ten seconds to secure the vent to a line and kick it out of place, then haul it back into the shaft and retrieve his ever-so-useful mini rope. He sticks his head through the new opening, and, seeing no one, drops onto the tiled floor ten feet below. Buck follows suit a moment later, landing a little heavier than Clint.

Dim security lights illuminate the empty mall; they’ve ended up on the second floor, on a walkway that overlooks what seems to be a food court. Shops of all description line the walls, dark and covered with locked metal grates.

Buck catches Clint’s attention with a nudge to his boot. ‘Where do you keep pulling this shit from?’ he signs, gesturing at the line and penlight still clutched in Clint’s hand. He grins and stuffs them both into his pocket.

‘A good Boy Scout is always prepared,’ he replies with a jaunty salute. Buck rolls his eyes and stalks away, but not before Clint catches the smile hovering at his lips. He bites back a soft smile of his own and shrugs his bow from his back, following Buck down the shadowed hall. They walk down an immobile escalator to the mall’s main floor, where Buck marches straight up to the huge map on a pedestal in the middle of the food court. It would really be ridiculous if Buck didn’t look like he was one-hundred percent ready to kill a man.

Apparently satisfied with the mall’s choice of vendors, Buck walks off with a purpose, gesturing for Clint to follow (like he’d do anything else). He stops, however, when he finally sees where exactly Buck is heading. He jogs a few steps to get in front of the man and walks backwards when Buck makes no move to stop.

‘Dick’s? Really? We’ve broken into a shopping mall of all places and you want to buy a fucking canoe?’

‘Guns,’ Buck responds simply.

Clint shakes his head. He doubts they’ve got anything remotely powerful in there, though it is a pretty big outlet. He’s personally more interested in the clothes and food, especially considering they had passed an Auntie Anne’s a little while back.

If there are any security guards in this mall, they’re extremely shitty at their jobs. Buck pinches the locks from the metal lattice overlaying the entrance to Dick’s in a matter of seconds, and slips inside with a graceful ease. (Clint trips over his feet trying to do the same, but no one actually sees, so it didn’t _really_ happen.) The store beyond is pitch black, so Clint clicks his trusty penlight back on and leads the way around a massive staircase to the counter, where he assumes the guns would be kept.

Buck takes over from here, vaulting over the counter and disappearing through a door labeled ‘Employees Only.’ Clint follows at his own pace, grabbing a little pocket knife and a few candy bars from the checkout line as he walks around the counter. By the time he joins Buck in the backroom, he’s already begun fiddling with the locking mechanism of a huge safe door set into the far wall. It looks fairly complicated, with a spinning tumbler lock and keypad, but Buck is trained and security is shit in this place anyway.

Until, as per Clint’s luck, it isn’t.

For the second time in twenty-four hours, Clint’s poor ears are assaulted by screeching alarms loud enough to make his eardrums vibrate. Buck shouts something, probably a curse, and bolts out of the room, Clint literally in tow. If Clint can hear the alarms, they’re probably earsplitting for Buck, but the man doesn’t try to cover his ears as he hauls Clint out of Dick’s by the upper arm. Clint eventually manages to wriggle his arms through Buck’s grip until they’re holding hands, but there is no escaping James Barnes’ grasp when he doesn’t want to lose you in a darkened mall that’s probably being surrounded by cops.

More probably-curses fly from Buck’s lips as he skids around the mall looking for an exit. Their entrance route is not an option, apparently; Clint isn’t sure why until he glimpses two of the expected-but-previously-absent security guards sprinting from that general direction. Suddenly wishing he had thought to put on his mostly bulletproof vest before robbing a place, Clint grits his teeth and follows Buck to their only viable escape route: the front doors.

 _This is a terrible fucking idea_ , floats through Clint’s mind a few times before Buck barrels through the doors and skids to a halt. _A terrible, awful, shitty, no good, probably-going-to-get-us-arrested idea._

Two police cars are parked right outside the building, and four armed officers stare down the would-be thieves. Lightning fast fingers have an arrow nocked to his bow before Clint can think, but he freezes when four guns level at his face. _That seems really excessive_.

The cop on the far right is saying something, but, of course, Clint can’t hear it. He keeps his bow pointed towards the ground, but jerks towards Buck when the man takes a step forward. All four guns flick to Buck, who raises his hands in a gesture of surrender, but takes another step towards the policemen anyway. Clint really hates this situation; the cops look too twitchy, and Buck, who had thought to put on his less-bulletproof-than-Clint’s vest, cuts a startling figure in a darkened parking lot at one o’clock in the morning. Clint knows the look in his eyes. Buck is _not_ getting arrested tonight, one way or another.

Clint sucks his bottom lip into his mouth when Buck edges forward again. Right Cop shouts something that looks suspiciously like _“I’m warning you,”_ but doesn’t finish his statement before there’s a flurry of movement and a wicked knife abruptly sprouts from his throat. A single gunshot rings out, audible to Clint, as always, and Buck slumps to the ground. It’s fast and unexpected, and even the cops look a little confused, and Clint’s stomach drops straight to the asphalt at his feet.

The world is completely still for a moment. Clint stares at Buck’s prone form for a moment, at the black pool spreading from beneath him, then slowly drags his gaze up to the cops, who are shouting things he can’t hear. Everything is going in slow motion again, nothing is right, and the world had stopped spinning when James Barnes hit the ground. Clint swallows, takes a deep breath; he breaks.

Three arrows, three targets. They all hit their marks before the cops have a chance to raise their weapons again. Clint doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about the lives he’s just taken, doesn’t care about what happens to him now. He kneels at Buck’s side, sits, pulls the man’s head into his lap. Perfectly steady fingers check for a pulse, and it’s there, weak but even. A little color seeps back into Clint’s world, and his thoughts start to coalesce once again, to form back into something that could be considered a working brain.

The bullet had ripped through Buck’s side, glancing off and shattering one of his ribs as it tore through skin and muscle, leaving a huge, gory furrow in its wake. His brain now working overtime, Clint scrambles back to his feet and hauls Buck over his shoulders, flinching visibly when the man screams right in his ear. Reinforcements will be there soon; if the cops didn’t call for backup, the security officers in the mall probably would have when they heard the gunshots. This in the forefront of his mind, Clint moves as fast as he possibly can, sprinting back to their stolen car and dumping Buck unceremoniously into the passenger’s seat. His fingers have finally begun to tremble when he gets Buck’s vest and shirt off, using the latter as a compress in a probably useless attempt to stop the bleeding.

Once he’s convinced a near-unconscious Buck to keep the shirt clamped to his side, Clint scrambles into the driver’s seat and speeds out of the parking lot. He has no idea where he’s going or how he’s going to get there, but Buck is bleeding out beside him and fuck if he remembers anything from his medical training way back when. His hands are sticky on the steering wheel.

When he’s on the interstate, speeding away from that ill-omened place as fast as the speed limit allows, Clint lets himself cry.

**Author's Note:**

> So that happened? A prequel explaining Clint and Buck's honestly fucked relationship is in the works, as is Part II. Thanks for reading!


End file.
